


Memento Mori

by ThosePinkChucks



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Blood and Violence, Death, F/M, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Occult
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27005773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThosePinkChucks/pseuds/ThosePinkChucks
Summary: Michael Langdon was promised since the very beginning, the antichrist, the bringer of all evil and end to humanity. But what if him stumbling around aimlessly without his father to guide him, trying to bring around the end times, he ends up angering somebody far more powerful: Death.Even the Apocalypse has rules and it falls to Death to steer Satan's son in the right direction.
Relationships: Michael Langdon/Original Female Character(s), Michael Langdon/Reader, Michael Langdon/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Decided I needed to write a little of what I’ve been thinking of for a new Michael x Reader insert. Let me know what you think and I might continue. :)

“You tell me what to do or you let me die here!“ Michael fell to his knees in the middle of the upside down pentagram he had drawn into the pine needle covered ground.

You watched, immaterial as the hours dragged by, day turning to dusk and night. You had to hand it to the boy, he was persistent. You knew he'd arrive one day on this earth and yet you felt oddly sentimental as you watched his unwavering spirit slowly crumble.

On day 4, the hallucinations set in. The pain and confusion on his face were like a theatre production on the big stage. Oh how clueless he was. So much guilt, you could taste it on your tongue. Throughout it, he remained steadfast, sunken eyes and stubble only adding to the pathetic picture he painted. Daddy wouldn't lift a finger. No, so it fell to you to yet again to sift through the chaos.

“Leave me alone,” he answered the vision before the next came washing over him.

“You're not real, n-n-none of this is re-real,” his voice broke as he looked around completely lost.

The Antichrist, covered in grime and dirt after sitting in the forest, waiting for a reply that wouldn't come. If it weren't so utterly heartbreaking, you'd laugh. The only problem was, that this was prophecy and right now that prophecy sat like a sad little lump on the ground, smelling to the heavens, waiting for his absent father. You couldn't bare to watch any longer. Maybe a little good omen would lift the boy back on his feet so you decided to conjure up a little something of your own. After some thought, you smirked. It didn't mean you couldn't have a little fun while steering Lucifer's offspring into the right direction.

You decided on what form to take and Anton LaVey might just do the trick.

“Don't listen to her, you've done a great job,” LaVey's voice boomed.

“No! I've failed! I'm lost, I don't understand my purpose!” Michael heaved. Sooo little faith, you nearly groaned.

“You're everything we expected. The alpha and the omega. Who is, who was and who is to come.”

“Liar!” Michael roared and grabbed your hallucination by the neck in an impressive display of strength. Yet you began to lose patience and you have had eons of that. Maybe this whole show needed a little more symbolism, after all that's what started all this. With a flick of your invisible wrist an Angel appeared in front of Michael then, the embodiment of everything holy. You nearly gagged at your own theatrics.

“God loves you,” the Angel rumbled, wings spread out behind him and Michael fell back onto the soft forest floor, repelled. Bingo.

You'd hoped he'd bite the bait of the black horned goat. And boy did he bite.

“Are you my father?” he asked sincerely, hope gleaming in his teary gaze. You winced. Maybe you had overdone the whole holy/unholy aspect of this intervention.

Of course he'd see his father in a bloody goat. Whatever it took him to get his sweet ass off the ground and moving toward his prophecy. You'd take it. With a bleat, the goat replied, empty eyes staring at Michael.

Michael produced a ritual knife out of his back pocket and with a conviction you thought he didn't possess, he stabbed into it's neck, splattering him and the forest floor in warm blood. One eyebrow shot up appreciatively. So much anger, so much hate for daddy dearest. Why did everything always boil down to daddy issues, you mused as your invisible form came to stand beside Michael watching as he ripped the horns out of the skull, snakes slithering out the gaping holes.

“What do you want from me! What am I supposed to do?! What the fuck am I supposed to do?” Michael screamed at at the top of his lungs and fell to his knees, exhausted.

You rolled your eyes, wasn't it obvious? You felt the scene you had painted made that perfectly clear.

You crouched beside him, unseen, unfelt and whispered: “What you were born to do.” With that, your immaterial fingers slipped into his subconscious and planted the thought of where to head next.

He could use some company and you knew just the place.


	2. Death at the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After having sent Michael on his merry way to The Church of Satan, Death believes it's time to reveal herself before Jeff and Mutt can screw up the one good plan they came up with between them with their last remaining brain cell.

Your black stiletto heals clicked along the shiny white floors in the entry hall of Kineros Robotics, your equally black cape dress swished with every calculated step you took. What could you say, you loved the color.

It had been incredibly easy to enter the building and make it past the security guards. You didn't even have to slip into their minds, they were so entranced by your outward appearance alone, eating up your words while your invisible hands logged a private meeting at the same time Jeff and Mutt were meeting with Michael into the system.

You were so incredibly seductive to mere mortals, you mused, one corner of your lip quirking upward. Admittedly, the form you chose was nothing short of show-stopping. The (Y/C/H) glossy hair and (Y/C/E) eyes, paired with a feminine figure, graceful valleys and hills only accentuated by the form fitting dress you were currently wearing was your favorite out of all them. You glanced sideways at yourself in one of the countless full floor glass panes along the corridor as you made your way to the reception. You looked so wonderfully alive and the paradox wasn't lost on you. 

You turned the corner and laid eyes on the figure sitting in front of a desk, devoid of any individualism and even you couldn't shove the proverbial stick up her backside further if you tried. Your gaze leveled at the red-haired woman, you approached the podium she resided on, coming to stand right at the edge of the table. She sensed you before she saw you, yet she refused to look up from whatever menial task she was currently engrossed in.

You remained silent, looming over her, still as stone. In a fight of wills, you always won.  
She finally glanced up over sickeningly purple rimmed glasses and took you in. 

"Who are you and how did you get up here?" her voice condescending as she mustered you. You let her eyes glide over your black ensemble, baring teeth disguised as a bright smile.

"I have an appointment with Mr. Nutter and Mr. Pfister," you replied matter-of-fact. The irony of their names wasn't lost on you.

"No, you don't. I am in charge of all their appointments and I would have remembered you," she countered, distaste on her tongue.

"Oh, but I do. The reason you weren't made aware is because it's...well, classified," you retorted punctuating the last word, slowly but surely losing your patience with the woman. You watched as her nostrils flared ever so slightly at the remark. It was too easy to rile somebody like her up. Underachieving, overzealous and desperate to be taken seriously.

"Do check your calendar. I'm sure you'll find it," you encouraged her, now smiling coyly.

With a huff, she dragged her mouse on the screen to open the calendar. A moment of confusion flitted across her face that quickly passed to anger and finally trepidation. She cleared her throat in a desperate attempt to compose herself.

"Y-yes...you are right. Ms. (Y/L/N)?" she asked, suddenly so unsure of herself. If that was all it took to shake her tough exterior, there was little hope. Quicker than you had expected, she stood, producing a cane from behind her chair.

"Please, follow me," she said, her back rigid and it wasn't from her scoliosis that you could make out beneath her pressed blazer but embarrassment.

"Lead the way," you replied, motioning her to walk in front of you with a cocked eyebrow and a smile. If only she knew who she was sassing a moment earlier. Time and place you, reminded yourself as there were more pressing matters at hand. The impending apocalypse to be exact. 

"Oh, before I forget, what's your name? I didn't catch it earlier," you inquired, walking a few steps behind her, hands clasped loosely behind your back as you sauntered down the long hallway.

"I-I never told you. I am Ms. Venable," she replied, her cane missing a beat at the question. She stopped in her tracks at the fault, clearly becoming more and more flustered by your presence. Good, you thought. She may not know it, but she could feel it.

"I think I can take it from here, it's the door on the right I presume?" you asked, stopping but a foot behind her. You may have been a little shorter than her in this human form, yet your presence towered over her, like an impending thunderstorm about to break.

"Y-yes, that's the one,"she confirmed, turning around to face you. There it was, clear as day on her face. The hint of recognition. Fear crept up her arms. She didn't know why she felt it, yet you did. You had met her before, caressed her cheek with invisible fingers when she was barely 12 years old, after the third operation to fix her spine left her flat- lining on the operating table. In that state between life and death she had seen your true form and she recognized it now in a dark crevice of her mind. 

"Thank you, Ms. Venable, you are too kind. I can take it from here," you chided, your eyes looking past hers and into her soul. You wouldn't claim it today, no, that day way still a ways off but you enjoyed seeing it under these circumstances nonetheless.

Wordlessly she past you, her cane shaking slightly as she stalked off back to her throne. You felt the tears prick at her eyes. 

“They've been waiting for the Antichrist. You just tell them what you want and when you want it and they have to do it. They're basically like your army, dude," you heard one of the men who didn't yet know they had an impromptu meeting with you, exclaim.

You walked closer to the big glass doors, listening.

"Well what am I supposed to do with them? If magic wasn't enough to bring around the end times-“ Michael began but Mutt interrupted him.

"No, no,no ,no you don't need magic to destroy the world bro, not when you have science,“ he explained gleefully.

"And humanity," Jeff intercepted. "People suck. They're selfish and short-sighted, all anyone cares about is immediate gratification,“ Jeff continued, snorting a line of cocaine to enunciate his point. All you could do was roll your eyes. These two were so laughable cliché and couldn't help but scoff as you overheard that last tidbit of their conversation. Dumb and dumber weren't ideal but despite their coked-out brains, they had actually managed to come up with a half decent plan. Michael at the head of the Cooperative would give him disposal of everything necessary. Deciding to make your presence known, you waltzed through the open doors, clapping slowly as you walked down the steps.

"Great job boys, you really outdid yourselves. Who would've thought two snow ploughs like you even have enough brain cells left to remember how to breathe, let alone come up with a half decent plan. I'm impressed."

At your footsteps, Jeff and Mutt had perked up, alarm in their face, looking from you, to each other and to Michael who still sat leaned back in his chair with his back to you.

“Who the fuck are you?" Mutt said, a scowl on his face at the insult, glancing at Jeff who looked just as perplexed at you showing up in their lab uninvited. You came to stand beside Michael's chair, your close proximity making him look up.

"Consider me...a stakeholder," you replied matter-of-factly, your fingers grazing the beveled glass edge of the table.

"You're no stakeholder. We own the entire company down to the last urine cake'" Jeff shot back with a shit-eating grin.

“Fucking right on, bro!” Mutt yelled, fist bumping the blonde.

"Not in your abysmally piss-poor sex-doll workshop disguised as a robotics company," you scoffed, disgust in your voice. Their shoulders slumped at your clap-back. 

"The Apocalypse." You looked down at Michael then, winking. He seemed less confused about why you were here and more with what you where. You could feel him trying to slither into your mind, barely scratching at the surface, a mere tickle. He had so much to learn. With a flick, you shoved him off. His eyes narrowed then, clearly not used to somebody beating him at his own game.

“Who are you?” he asked low.

“Excellent question!” you answered him, walking around the back of his chair to place your hands on the backrest. Effortlessly, you swiveled him around to face you, as you began to pace. 

"How about we make this fun, a riddle perhaps?" you mused looking down at your perfectly manicured nails as you stopped in the middle of the lab, a saccharine smile on your lips.

"I am alive yet to not breathe. I am ancient yet seductive to all men. You fear me and yet you crave me in your darkest hour. I am inevitable."

Your words hung in the air and you watched their faces, the cogs turning inside their heads. Michael watched you, his icy blue eyes searching your (Y/E/C) ones. _Play along,_ you sing-sang mentally, staring him down with a mischievous glint.

"Thanos...You're Thanos?" Jeff muttered incredulously after a while and looked at Mutt for confirmation and the little stare-off between you and Michael was broken. Your smile dropped, your eyes snapping to the blonde muppet with a deadpan expression. What had you expected from somebody with a haircut like his. Clearly too much.

"Think again, peabrain," you retorted. The lights in the room began to flicker, the halogen bulb directly above you cracking, threatening to explode. You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath to compose yourself. 

Jeff gulped audibly at your display and began furiously whispering with Mutt behind his hand, both of them wracking their brain for the obvious solution. Definitely too much coke, you thought. 

“Death,” Michael said and solved your little riddle with a satisfied smirk, eyes lit up. Smart boy, you praised him, unspoken. A tiny blush crept up to bloom over his marvelous cheekbones at your words of praise. Over the past couple of months he had matured, the last remaining fat in his cheeks dissolving to give way to chiseled features. He was beautiful, you had to admit but then again, he was the son of Lucifer. You'd expected nothing short of awe-inspiring. 

“It wasn't hard,” he remarked, the smirk spreading over his plump lips as he lent back in the chair, knees falling outward. Man-spreading, were we, you chuckled at his cocky display. He still had so much to learn. 

“So clever, hmm?” you lulled, striding up to him to stand between his knees in a blink. Michael didn't flinch at your sudden proximity.

“Perhaps a little too much for your own good, boy wonder,” you berated, bending at the waist to whisper in his ear, sending chills flitting down his spine. You lifted you hand from behind your back, your index finger coming to rest under his angular chin, tilting it up so he would look you in the eyes, bare inches from his. Jeff and Mutt, utterly flabbergasted on the other side of the table completely forgotten by both you and him. 

“I think it's high time we had a little chat. After all, the last time we met, you weren't in the best shape, crying for daddy dereast on the cold forest floor, were you now?” Michael's eyes widened at your words, finally recognizing your aura from the woods. He wasn't sure what he had felt that day the visions came, ultimately leading him to the Church of Satan. He was taken aback momentarily, drawing in a deep breath ,bewildered, then his face morphed into a scowl at your revelation. How dare you make him look weak in front of his followers. 

“Now, now, Michael. You'll get wrinkles and you're far too pretty for that,” you remarked, looking down at him through thick lashes, your fingers smoothing over the deep lines furrowed between his brows. So soft. He really was a sight to behold, all riled up and flustered. You stood back up, smoothing over your skirt.

“I don't know about you but all this talk about the apocalypse has me positively starving. Let's continue this over dinner, shall we?” you asked without waiting for an awsner from him and sauntered over to the glass doors, your hand coming to rest on the handle as you waited, patiently, yet again, for Michael to catch on. 

“Go, dude! You heard the Lady...errr Death,” Jeff urged Michael, who was taken aback by your brazen display of power. He didn't like it when people made him look weak and yet he needed to know more about you and why you were in the woods that day. 

Curiousity finally killed the cat and he stood to walk up to you.

“Fine. But you owe me awsners,” he bit, hands clenched at his sides. You laughed, loud.

“I don't owe you jack shit sweety, but keep telling yourself that. Now get a move one, we are on the clock.” Without looking back at the blonde antichrist, you walked out the door, spring in your step, your heels clicking on the ground in staccato. Michael turned to look back at the two men briefly, their mouths agape before huffing and jogging after you.


	3. Death by Cake

You reached the courtyard of Kineros Robotics in record time, Michael hot at your heels.

“Can you walk a little slower?“ Michael complained, walking quickly beside you to keep up despite his long legs. You weren't lying when you had told him that you were on the clock. 

„No can do, kiddo. Now come on, use those wonderful legs of yours,“ you threw at him over your shoulder, your hands searching for the car keys you had stashed in one of the conveniently hidden pockets of your dress without slowing down. Why weren't those a thing yet when humanity had invented every other type of useless thingamabob and yet pockets on a dress were blasphemous, you wondered. The intricacies of humankind often evaded you. The fingers of your right hand grazed the keys in your pocket and with a satisfied smirk you pulled them out. 

“I'm not a kid, you know. I'm the Anti-,“ Michael began, irritated.

„The Antichrist, yes and you were born exactly when, 2012? You may not look it Michael, but in the grand scheme of things you're barely an amoeba,“ you interrupted him, not in the mood for any more temper tantrums. Without having to look back at his face, you felt the anger rolling off him in waves. He really was not used to being treated as anything less than the son of Satan. If he wanted you to lick his shoes, he was sorely mistaken. If anything, he should be on his knees before you, praising the universe for having sent you in his hour of need.

Continuing to ignore a seething Michael, your eyes zoned in on your newest toy. A 1965 Black Ford Mustang Convertible with bright red leather seats. Seeing as you were all things considered an ancient being and material things meant positively nothing to you, you did have two weaknesses. Fast food and fast cars. You liked to think that it was due to the human form you took, your immense power being pressed into the confines of a limited body and your patient nature being expressed in a rather paradoxical instant gratification. Thankfully, you couldn't gain any weight nor die in a car crash, remaining ever the same, and so you chose to indulge yourself at every given opportunity. Soon enough, those fleeting pleasures would come to an end. Might as well enjoy it while you could. 

You skipped over the curb to the driver's side, admiring the way the inky paint coat glistened in the late afternoon sun, not a speck of dust in sight. 

Michael came to stand by the passenger door, now more confused than angry. He was ever-changing, you mused. 

“Did, did you sell your soul to my father too?” he asked, mustering the convertible before his eyes searched your face. 

“No, Michael,” you chuckled amused. H really didn't know the first thing about the Apocalypse or his place in all of this. Maybe there would be time to give the boy a lesson, but not until you had had a good meal. 

“I think I'm out of your dad's league if we're being honest. I am more a collector of souls myself. Your father or God don't actually hold the monopoly even though that's what they like to tell everyone. Tell you what, over dinner you and I will take a little trip down memory lane,” you explained, watching him with intent. 

“Liar,” Michael said lowly, processing your words. His icy blue eyes narrowed at you. You could feel his power trying to claw at you, yet it felt distinctly like a kitten lick. 

“Oh please, Michael, I don't lie,” you retorted unaffected, your hand grabbing the door handle and sliding into the seat, grabbing the pair of sunglasses on the dashboard and putting them on before looking at Michael, your fingers drumming on the steering wheel. This was not going nearly as well as you had planned and if you wanted to keep the plan you had set in motion rolling, you would undoubtedly need to change course, despite the fact that you loathed having to do so. Death be damned, you thought. 

“I don't like repeating myself, Michael. I don't owe you any answers but perhaps I'm growing soft and the fact that you are left to your own devices, trying to figure out the single most monumental task on this rock hurtling through space has me feeling a little...sympathetic,” you stated, leaning over to push open the passenger door as a sign of goodwill.

“Tell you what, you can ask me all the questions you like, deal?”

Michael contemplated for a few seconds. He didn't like to admit it but so far he hadn't been the one to come up with any good plans that didn't involve The Omen 3 plot and his father had been absent throughout his accent so far. He didn't trust you or anybody bar Ms. Mead and yet you presented an enigma to him, one he needed to crack open. He was brilliant at problem-solving and he would solve you too, he thought to himself, a little grin creeping into the corner of his mouth. His invisible claws retracted. 

“Deal. But I get to ask as many as I want,” he replied, pulling the door open all the way and plopping himself into the passenger seat beside you, arms crossed over his broad chest. 

“Fine, a deal's a deal,” you groaned only halfheartedly, shooting him a grin of your own as you fired up the engine and pulled out onto the road. You really did have your work cut out for you. Lucky for Michael, he was so easy on the eyes that you didn't mind as much as you should have. You pressed the 'on' button of the radio and stifled a laugh at the song that had just started playing:

_I see the bad moon a-rising  
I see trouble on the way  
I see earthquakes and lightnin'  
I see bad times today_

_Don't go around tonight  
Well it's bound to take your life  
There's a bad moon on the rise_

°°°  
20 Minutes later, you pulled into a parking lot, turned off the engine, hopping out of the car, and came around to Michael's side to take an unneeded but deep breath, filling your lungs with crisp evening air and the distinct smell of desert. The sun had just begun to set, a slight chill setting in and the last remaining rays illuminated Michael's blond hair in a way that reminded you an awful lot of his father before the fall. You let your gaze wander over his sitting form for a second, before lightly slapping the arm he had draped over the side of the car, lost in his own thoughts. 

“Come on, Angel, we're here,“ you chided playfully, knowing it would rile the blonde man up unnecessarily. On cue, Michael's gaze shot up to meet your own, nostrils flaring at the more than holy pet name.

“Don't call me that! I'm anything but that!“ he bit out but couldn't keep the blush from creeping up his neck. He didn't like the way you made him feel. Weak and unsure of himself. No power he had encountered could match his, not even Cordelia's and then you came along. As if he wasn't already feeling insecure enough, even after having massacred the witches and warlocks, you only added to the sense that he hadn't yet achieved what he was meant to do, or be where his father expected him to be. Sensing his unease, you tussled his locks with your left hand, pulling him out of his self-induced reverie.

“There is nothing a good cake can't fix, Michael. Trust me,” you smiled at him, hoping he would pull himself together and get out the car. At the word cake, he did perk up, finally glancing behind you to look at where you had taken him.

“The Cheesecake Factory, really?” he looked up at you quizzically, disbelieving. If you were in fact Death, and he wasn't yet sure you weren't lying to him despite your overpowering aura, shouldn't you be dining in some high-class restaurant on the other end of town where they didn't even have prices on the menu? 

“Are you food shaming me?” you retorted, one eyebrow shooting up.

“Err, no. It just doesn't...suit you,” Michael replied, his right hand coming to massage the back of his neck, embarrassment evident at his remark. 

“Wouldn't you like to know what does and doesn't suit me. If you must know, it's kind of my thing. Don't ask me why but I just can't keep my hands off sweet things,” you explained, winking at him and only adding to his embarrassment. Before the Antichrist could slide any further down your passenger seat and be swallowed whole by the ground, you opened his door and gestured for him to get out.

“Relax. You clearly don't know how to take a joke. Come on, I can smell the cakes from here.” You turned on your heels, cape dress swishing behind you as you made your way across the parking lot to the entry. You weren't quite sure your words were meant as a joke but that was a heart-to-heart you'd have with yourself later. The only sweet thing on your mind right now was cake and soda. The slam of the car door indicated that Michael had managed to detach himself from the red leather interior and he jogged up beside you, matching your stride. 

“I hope you're hungry. I'm paying,” you said, smiling with glee and making Michael chuckle. Another thing to add to your slowly growing list of likes about the spawn of Satan, you noted to your dismay. 

°°°  
You placed the fork neatly back onto the now empty plate, devoid of even the smallest crumb, that had held an entire ultimate red velvet cake, groaning blissfully. Eyes closed, you swallowed down the last bite. Opposite you, Michael had stopped eating his pasta dish some time ago. When you had said that there is nothing a cake couldn't fix, you had meant an entire cake after all. The hunger you felt whenever you were in a human body was not easily satiated. Something that Michael or the waiter were clearly not prepared for. Both had been watching you for the last 5 minutes, jaws slack, as piece after piece traveled on the fork and into your mouth.

“That was positively delicious,” you hummed, casting a glance at Michael, fork suspended in mid-air.

“W-would you like anything else, Miss?” the waiter stuttered, taking your plate and admiring it as if it were a rare antiquity.

“Oh no, I think I've been quite naughty enough, don't you think?” you giggled, reaching for the Fanta and taking a large sip. 

“Michael, you've hardly touched your food,” you noted, your voice rousing the young man out the trance your display of gluttony had placed him under. He cleared his throat, putting the fork down, adjusting his seat on the table. 

“I'm not hungry anymore.”

“Oh, ok, well in that case we'd like the bill please,” you addressed the waiter with a satisfied grin, gulping down the last remnant of orange soda in your glass.

“Hey, you said you'd answer my questions! I knew you were a liar!” Michael intercepted, trying his best to keep his voice down. 

“ I don't lie, Michael. You chose to watch me enjoy some cake instead of asking questions, didn't you?” you countered, your elbows coming to rest on the table, fingers intertwining. His anger and frustration bubbled to the surface once again. If he weren't the Antichrist, you were sure he would have a heart attack by the time he hit 30. His body tensed at your statement of truth, eyes squinting menacingly at you. Yet you were right, he had been so busy watching you, he had forgotten all about the myriad of questions buzzing in his mind like moths around a flame. His eyes fluttered shut briefly, gulping down the rage that threatened to burst out his chest. You watched as the blonde man tried to gain back his composure, your finger coming to run along the rim of the empty glass in front of you. 

“Michael,” you demanded. His eyes opened to meet your own and you could see his restraint hanging by a thread in them. He did have a temper and you didn't want him setting fire to your favourite restaurant just yet.

“I'm in a good mood tonight. Instead of just answering your questions, I would like to show you something that will answer almost all of them. A deal is a deal,” you tried to reason. Michael mulled your words over in his head, sizing you up while doing so.

“Oh for goodness sake, Michael! I'm not trying to manipulate you. I'm trying to help you!” you exclaimed, exasperated at his hesitance and mistrust. While you knew his beginnings on this earth weren't exactly peppered in love, warmth and trust, you couldn't afford him seeing you as the enemy. Neither could he. 

“If you don't believe me, take a peek. Make it last, this will be a one-off,” you encouraged him, an invisible finger beckoning him closer and allowing him limited access to your mind momentarily. Michael's mind pushed through your doors, grazing, flitting over millennia of memories before you let him look at your core. 

_No lies, Michael, you see?_

You eased him out and sealed the doors shut tightly once again, leaning back in your chair, the restaurant coming back into focus. 

“Here's your bill, Miss. Thank you for stopping by at the Cheesecake Factory tonight,” the waiter had brought you the bill. Wordlessly, you handed him a 100$ bill, nodding your head briefly at him to suggest that he could keep the change and waited for Michael's response. 

“Ok,” Michael finally replied, rolling his head on his shoulders, resulting in a gratuitous cracking sound. You weren't sure if he was entirely satisfied with your show of goodwill. Not that it mattered. 

“Let's take a walk,” you suggested, getting up without even the slightest hint of a stomach after decimating an entire cake. Michael's eyes never left you and the enigma you were to him just became a lot more enticing. A boyish smirk crossed his face as he stood up to walk in front of you. At the exit, he held open the door.

“My, my Michael. Didn't take you for a gentleman,” you chuckled, gracefully pushing past him and into the cool night air. 

“My Ms. Mead would expect nothing less of me,” he offered, not bothering to hide his Cheshire cat smile. You had allowed him access to your mind and the things he saw, he desperately wanted to see again. You were like a box of confectioneries to him. For once in his life, his pride and ever-growing sense of entitlement took the backseat. He felt like he had finally met someone of his own caliber and the feeling was exhilarating to him. You weren't his father but you were the next best thing and best of all, right in front of him.


End file.
